Chapter 20
Knox
I snapped several shots with my phone, zooming in on the reflection. The quality wasn’t great, but it was something. Proof that someone had been watching Sarah at my mother’s shop. And that this seashell was possibly some sort of calling card.
We spent another hour with Mrs. Lake, going through more of Sarah’s photos and journal entries, taking notes about her movements during those last days. When we finally stood to leave, the older woman pulled Sloane into a tight hug.
“Thank you for doing this,” she whispered. “For not giving up on her. On any of them.”
“We won’t stop until we find answers,” Sloane promised.
I shook Mrs. Lake’s hand, offering what comfort I could. “We’ll keep you updated on anything we find.”
We were halfway down the front walk when I spotted a blue-and-white VW bus parked three houses down, partially obscured by a large oak tree. The same vehicle I’d seen at the party. The same one Sloane had described from the trailhead.
My hand tightened on Sloane’s. “Don’t look. Just keep walking. Get in the Jeep.”
To her credit, Sloane didn’t break stride. “The VW?”
“Yeah.”
We climbed into the Jeep with forced casualness. I started the engine and pulled away from the curb, watching the van in my rearview mirror. It didn’t move. Didn’t follow. Just sat there, silent and waiting.
“He’s here,” Sloane said, her voice tight with fear. “He followed us. He knows we’re investigating.”
“Or he was watching Mrs. Lake’s house.” I circled the block, but when we came back around, the van was gone. No sign of it anywhere on the street. “Son of a bitch.”
I pulled over and called Nash, filling him in on everything we’d learned. And the VW bus sighting.
“I’ll contact their local law enforcement,” Nash said. “Get a description of the bus to Raleigh PD and request a patrol car in the area. But Knox, you need to be careful. It’s not good that this guy is following you.”
“I know. We’re being careful.”
“I think it’s more like you’ve kicked a hornet’s nest.”
Sloane frowned at my dashboard, where the call piped through speakers. “What do you mean?”
Nash sighed. “I reached out to state police with your report of a break-in last night. They’ve taken over the missing hikers’ cases, so I wanted to keep them informed. These are obviously linked offenses.”
“And?”
“The FBI called me this morning.”
“FBI?” My hands tightened on the wheel. “Since when have they been handling this?”
“Since they received the photos you took of that shell. Turns out they’ve been tracking a pattern of missing women along the east coast. Virginia, Maryland, North Carolina. Your shell photo connected to their investigation.”
Sloane’s face went white. “How many women?”
“They didn’t say. But they want to talk to you both. Today, if possible.”
My stomach dropped. Because FBI involvement meant this was bigger than three missing hikers on our island.
I ended the call and turned to find Sloane staring out the window, her hands kneading roughly in her lap. “Hey. You okay?”
“The shell is proof the same guy who took Sarah is the one who attacked me, right?” she asked.
“And all I can think about is that he left that at her rental. He was in my house. He was right outside watching us talk with Mrs. Lake.” Sloane’s voice shook.
Her eyes were wide, wild with fear when she turned to me.
“Oh my God. What if he goes after her now? What if we just painted a target on that poor woman’s back? ”
“Raleigh PD will have someone watch the house. She’ll be safe.” I reached over and took Sloane’s hand again, terrified by the news and immeasurably grateful for the upgraded security at her house. “We’re getting close. That’s why he’s escalating. He’s scared.”
“Good. He should be.”
I drove us back toward the coast, the comfortable silence from this morning replaced by tension. I checked the side and rearview mirrors on repeat, watching for any sign of the VW bus. Sloane’s phone rang twenty minutes into the drive.
Her face went pale. “Damn. It’s my mother. I forgot to text her again.”
She answered, and I did my best not to listen.
I didn’t give a damn what Mrs. Mercer thought about me.
I cared that Sloane’s parents had left her alone on an island after she’d been attacked.
I cared that the FBI thought the same guy who’d taken women in Virginia and Maryland was following Sloane.
I cared that he’d been bold enough to follow us a hundred miles just to send a message: I’m watching. I’m always watching.
I set one hand on Sloane’s leg. She was focused on the conversation with her mother, but all I could think about was how easy it would be for him to try to run us off the road right now.
On a stretch of isolated highway between here and home.
No witnesses. I pressed the accelerator, putting distance between us and Raleigh. Distance between us and him.
Sloane ended the call and stared at the phone in her shaking hands. “Why is she like that? Why are they both?”
I squeezed her thigh gently. “I’m sure your mother is—” I stalled, unsure how to proceed when nothing nice came to mind.
“She’s perpetually concerned about appearances and social standing above everything else.” Sloane’s voice cracked. “I’ve spent my whole adult life trying to meet her expectations. I went to the right schools, dated the right men, wore the right clothes. And it was never enough.”
I glanced in her direction, suspecting this was about our fake relationship again.
“You don’t have to explain this to me.”
“Yes, I do.” Sloane turned to face me. “Because you need to understand that this,” she motioned between us, “this fake relationship, is the first choice I’ve made in years that’s entirely mine. No family pressure, no social expectations. Just me deciding what I want.”
My chest tightened. “Even if what you want is fake?”
“Is it?” Sloane’s green eyes searched my face. “Is it really fake, Knox? Because it doesn’t feel fake. Not to me.”
The confession hung between us, dangerous and tempting. I wanted to tell her the truth—that nothing about this felt fake to me either. That I’d started to fall for her. Really fall, in a way that terrified me from the start.
But before I could find the words, her stomach growled loudly, breaking the tension.
Sloane laughed, the sound watery but genuine.
“Sounds like it’s time to eat.”
She covered her stomach with her hands, cheeks pink. “I had a granola bar and apple slices.”
“That was hours ago.”
Sloane rolled her eyes, then looked through her passenger-side window. “Fine. There’s a diner at the next exit. Let’s stop there.”